the stars are blue and shiver in the distance
by andfinallywearehome
Summary: "you've never really been one for nostalgia - keep on moving forward, that's what you've always been told, or else the world will leave you behind - but there's something about the familiarity of it all that feels nice, that can say all the things you won't recollect after a few hours of sleep." (or, these two deserving better? in this house? more likely than you think.)


_the stars are blue and shiver in the distance_

it goes like this: it's the first party of the year and you're not even sure you want to be there.

you wouldn't even be going in the first place if it weren't for your best friend, smiling out of the computer screen from miles and miles across the ocean.

_go out, have fun. this is what university is. it'll pass you by._

so you do, in the end, even if the music is so loud that there's a sharp ringing in your ears and the air that hits you in the face as soon as you step inside the room is heavy and weighs on you. a girl you've never seen before waves you over to their corner; a boy from your sports therapy class throws you a smile as he passes you a bright red cup full of liquid. it burns on the way down, the taste of cheap vodka and fizzy lemonade, and you make a mental note to find the nearest place to inconspicuously abandon the cup.

several people try to pull you into the middle of the room for a dance - guys, girls, you stop noticing it all. people are just people, and it is what it is, and maybe that's why you _don't_ notice at first, why you're so busy stood leaning against the wall like you could watch your whole life play out in front of you in this room like a film. it's even got the cheesy eighties music playing over it; it's even got the_ eyes meeting across a crowded room _trope that you've scoffed at so many times in the past, because suddenly -

\- you're dizzy and going on seventeen and the guy stood in front of you talking about living life for yourself is making your stomach do somersaults.

\- you're dizzy and going on nineteen and the blonde on the other side of the room is staring at you with a icy kind of burn in her blue eyes.

someone jostles into you, taps you on the shoulder - someone you've never seen before, _again_ trying to coax a dance out of you.

when they pass you a cup this time, you drink from it and decide that the burn on the way down isn't quite so bad because it provides one hell of a distraction from things. even when the party is winding down and you're stumbling out onto the pavement, hit with the cold night air, it takes you a minute to stop and think, before you realise that you're kind of unsure of what you're supposed to do now, until someone touches your arm and she's there in your personal space, and her eyes are slightly duller than they were before - perhaps she's been handed some of those red cups too.

you're leaning against her side a lot as you walk to the bus stop together, as she tells you that she feels so very small here, so very unimportant when she's been told the opposite her entire life. you kind of want to tell her that you're sorry for that; she waves the words away.

_it's humbling,_ she tells you - insists, even - but there's something in her voice that's off that tells you that perhaps she doesn't really mean it, that's she's not doing this for the fun of it. you don't ask, though, because those things don't matter out here at three in the morning, not when you can still feel the eleventh dose of whatever was in that cup still stuck to the roof of your mouth, and, stood next to you in the bus shelter, huddled for warmth, she's looking at you like you're some kind of enigma she can't figure out - even when you lean forward too far and her mouth finds yours (it's an accident, but not one you'd say you regret).

you've never really been one for nostalgia - keep on moving forward, that's what you've always been told, or else the world will leave you behind - but there's something about the familiarity of it all that feels nice, that can say all the things you won't recollect after a few hours of sleep.

_/_

she sits at your table in the coffee house on campus like the two of you are old friends, backlit by the early morning sun, drinking her morning coffee and telling you she doesn't really remember anything from the night before.

_you didn't miss anything._

she frowns, looks at the cup in her hand with distaste._ never again. i don't want to forget again._

suddenly, the air between you feels uncomfortable._ right._

_/_

you don't seem to have the same problem with forgetting. maybe it comes from being younger, from not bearing as much responsibility yet, but when someone invites you along to another party you find yourself saying yes.

it's pretty much the same as last time - the same nameless people, the same thumping music, the same dull ache behind your eyes from the flashing lights and loud noise - except there's no blondes with big blue eyes staring at you from across the room, and if there are, you aren't interested in them, not even the one who gives your drink a refill without you ever actually asking him.

it doesn't feel like long before you're sitting on the ground outside, propped up against the wall of someone's front garden, wondering if someone would object to you catching a few hours of sleep here, but you don't get to drift off because the universe isn't used to giving you a break, and suddenly there's a voice keeping you awake.

_you know, there are plenty of other, more comfortable places to sleep._

come to save you again. something about that feels fitting.

_what are you even doing here?_

_i was invited, _she says, and then, all of sudden, also looks a little sheepish_, and the babysitter offered, so -_

_of course they did, _you say, and then try to smother back the slow wave of what could almost be hysteria that burns in your chest like cheap alcohol, because _that's_ a can of worms you don't even want to look at right now._ look at us. look at the mess i got us in._

_i don't think it's such a mess._

you snort, getting comfortable on the ground even if the tarmac is cold, shiny with the rainfall from earlier._ well, you're wrong._

there's a wry smile on her face._ i've been wrong about a lot of things._

_i don't want to think about all the things i've screwed up._

_so don't think about it._

_doesn't make a difference. it's still following me._ your eyes fall to the ground you're sitting on, to the dark shadow you make where your legs are sprawled between the street lamp and the pavement._ i can't out-run it forever._

she's quiet for a few minutes. then:_ do you honestly think whatever weight you've got on your conscious is enough to scare me?_

you look up at her then, think over everything -_ everything_ that happened_. i don't really know anymore._

_neither of us have a clean slate, _she says._ i wouldn't want you to carry around half of the things i do._

_is that supposed to make me feel better?_

_it's the best i've got, i'm afraid. take it or leave it._

you kind of want to laugh at that - she doesn't know that you've always taken what you can get when it comes to her.

_fine. i'll take it._

_good._

she stands over you, blocking out the shadow from the street lamp, hand extended to help you up, and you take it, pulled off the ground and into her personal space. it feels like you're suddenly at a tipping point, you and her, like those planets in orbit that never touch but _could_ if they wanted to, like you're on the edge of a cliff - you don't know whether you want to jump off or not.

she watches you for a long moment, a moment that seems to stretch on and on, and then takes a step back, putting some distance between the two of you.

_you're not thinking straight_, she says.

_i don't do anything straight._

there's something incredibly fond in her exasperated expression. _you know that's not what i mean._

_i know what you mean._

she rolls her eyes._ and yet, here we are. you're impossible._

_nope. i'm magical._

she snorts._ i'm leaving you out here to fend for yourself next time. the bad jokes are too much._

(she still waits an hour for the night bus with you.)

/

you're lying on the grass in the park, bathed in the autumnal afternoon sun, listening to the sound of the nearby kids and using your coat as a blanket, when she breaks the comfortable silence with: _do you know who my favourite poet is?_

you don't look away from the book you're supposed to be studying from, but you do incline your head towards her to indicate you're listening.

_who?_

_neruda. _she smiles a little at the blank look that must be on your face._ he's a love poet._

_wow. i can't believe you read love poetry._

_there's nothing wrong with that._

_it's the most cliché thing i've ever heard._

_you're one to talk about cliché._

you have to give her that one; when you tell her as much, she laughs.

_go on, then, _you say, sitting up so you can look at her properly._ tell me about neruda._

she does - she talks on and on, waving a hand through the air when she gets truly passionate, and you simply sit and watch her in silence, watch the growing smile on her face and feel the one on your face that mirrors hers, until the alarm on her phone chimes, telling her it's time for her to go home, back to what she likes to call her_ real world._

_you should give it a try, _she says as she gathers up her own books in her bag (it's blue, to match the colour of the faded overalls she's taken to wearing these days)._ neruda, i mean._

_hmm. _you lay back on the grass, the sun cutting across your vision as you watch her out of the corner of your eye._ we'll see._

/

you're not technically supposed to be in the literature department, but you stop by the library on campus and dig out neruda's_ twenty love poems and a song of despair. _you start reading it on the way home, get so caught up in it that you miss your stop and have to wait on the platform for an extra hour for the next train.

_you're reading pablo neruda? _your dad asks, when you've finally trudged through the front door and made yourself at home by the kitchen counter; he's picked up the book and is turning it over in his hand._ didn't strike me as your kind of book._

you shrug._ it's something new, isn't it? i thought you were all about me trying new things now._

_well, quite. _he places it back on the counter, beside the book on sports therapy that you're actually supposed to be reading, but have yet to open._ you don't use this time to work things out, it'll pass you by. you'll regret it._

_yeah,_ you say._ i think i'm starting to realise that._

/

you're halfway through the book when your phone lights up with a skype call.

_we haven't talked in ages, _your best friend says,_ how's uni?_

_it's - _you pause. you're not sure you want him to know about everything that's happened, about sitting on the pavement in the early hours of the morning contemplating every mistake you've ever made. some things you want to keep to yourself._ it's interesting. eye opening._

_tell me about it._

you chuckle, but the sound just makes you sound tired, makes you feel the miles that stretch between you even more than usual._ i miss you, mate._

_i miss you too. _he smiles, and then finally takes notice of the book, lying face-down on your chest. _is that poetry? you read poetry now?_

you roll your eyes._ you sound like my dad. should i be offended that no one seems to think i read?_

_what poetry is it?_

you hold up the cover to let him have a better look._ it's love poetry from the twentieth century._

_since when?_

you shrug._ i kind of relate to it, i guess._

_i really am out of the loop, then._

_/_

_do you think i should get a tattoo or something?_ you ask one day, thinking out loud - a horrible habit you wish you hadn't picked up.

_i don't know, _she replies from the other end of the table, tone pleasant, simply turning another page in her book,_ are you having a midlife crisis?_

_i didn't ask so you could be judgemental._

_who said i was being judgemental?_

_everything you just said. _you raise an eyebrow._ are you winding me up?_

_a little bit, _she admits, smiling to herself._ some things never change, no?_

_do you ever think that maybe they should?_

she pauses, the finger that's tracing the paragraphs on the page in front of her stopping suddenly. when she finally looks up at you and speaks again, her voice is gentle, cautious, like she doesn't quite know where to tread.

_don't you think we've had enough change for one lifetime?_

her gaze drops straight back down to the table again, almost as if she's ashamed of what she's saying, and you kind of think you want to be drunk again because it's so much easier to do this when you don't understand what the real world is - except you've always been up against it, you and her, and perhaps she's tired of trying to fight it. you've kind of been wondering when the other shoe would drop for a while now, because history has a funny way of repeating itself.

_i suppose we have._

/

there's another party going on at the weekend, and because you don't have anything else to do you tag along when someone offers to give you a lift. one of those familiar red cups is placed in your hand the second you walk through the door, but you don't touch a single drop of it, not when looking at it turns your stomach.

you go before the clock even hits midnight, dropping your untouched drink into the bin outside and setting off down the street, away from the noise of the party and further into the quiet stillness of the evening.

you think about all of those mistakes of yours as you walk, the ones that led you here. to a sober mind, they don't seem to be as heavy a burden to carry. maybe you don't feel them so much anymore; maybe you've started to lighten the load recently.

you think about your mum too, which is somewhat unusual because you haven't found yourself thinking about her much these past few weeks. you always _miss _her, though, and tonight seems to be one of those nights when you miss her more than usual, because you have the strongest urge just to talk to her, ask her what you should do now. she had always been the_ follow your heart _type of person; she would have loved the neruda poetry, would have gotten such a kick out of it. just like someone else you're thinking of.

maybe that's why your legs start walking of their own accord, crossing streets into a familiar neighbourhood.

it takes three knocks on the door of the poky flat on the third floor of the tower block.

_love is so short and forgetting takes so long, _you say when the door opens, and then roll your eyes when all you get is a confused pair of blue eyes staring back at you. _neruda? twenty love poems and a song of despair? i thought about other quotes, but they were all a mouthful, and -_

she interrupts you._ you read neruda? really?_

you sigh._ you know, i'm getting really sick of people thinking i don't read._

_you read neruda for me?_

_of course i did. _it feels like another conversation, a ghost of words spoken once before, a long time ago._ i'd do anything for you._

she stares at you for a moment, blue eyes narrow as the wheels turn in her head, like she also wants to ask someone she can no longer reach what she's supposed to do now (it's a little thing, minuscule, but it reminds you of how alike you actually are, and how halfway in love with her you always have been, how in love with her you could be again). she takes a step back from the doorway, and for a second you think she's going to straight up slam the door in your face and send you a clear message of how she feels about your shoddy delivery of that neruda quote and your insistence on messing up the stability she's tried to have over the past few years, and then -

\- and then she holds a hand out towards you, an invitation, and when you take it and lace your fingers together, she smiles.

* * *

**intentional lowercase for the aesthetic, i swear. this was gifted to a friend on ao3, so i posted it here too because why not. also its 2019 and my son thomas robert clarke is still bisexual.**

**title comes from the neruda poem 'tonight i can write' and i own nothing.**


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